Aftermath
by eohippus
Summary: Sherlock s behaving odd months after the pool and resorts to desperate measures. Mycroft realises it takes two Holmeses to tackle Moriarty. They unite. Basically weaving my universe, where our favorite consulting detective is still haunted by his addiction, in between "The Great Game" and "Hounds". Not series 3-related.
1. Crime Scene

_I really shouldn´t post anything new before I´ve finished the other two stories I´m currently working on. Well, as series 3 confirmed my ideas on whether Mycroft really did sell out his brother to Moriarty, this one just wanted to be release. It explains a bit of my turn on things in "The Movement of Bees", too. _

_Enjoy!_

_eohippus_

_P.S.: There will be drugs - so be careful if you´re in any way bothered by the topic..._

* * *

**Crime Scene**

* * *

A cold winter breeze chases the pages of an abandoned newspaper over the cobbled stones of an Islington pavement. The paper turns and tumbles as if in confusion, then soars to catch hold on a human hand. A man curses heartily and pries it away from cold fingers, to throw it back into the current.

The street, deserted in the early morning hours, is crowded. Red tape parts the commuters who are rushing towards the nearest tube entrance from a small group of individuals huddling over the body of a middle-aged man. Most of them are clad in dark garments, keeping a careful distance. Two men and one woman, wrapped into transparent, green overalls, kneel at the man´s side, a pool of red caressing the tips of their feet. The group´s movements are measured, as if they are performing an intricate dance. A flashlight illuminates the scene, indicating routine but underlining the absurdity of this scenario.

A dark-haired man wearing a long, dark coat, its collar pulled up to his cheekbones, shields his eyes from another flash. "Could you just stop for a moment? How am I supposed to see anything in this light?" he snaps, his nose wrinkling in annoyance. He slips the magnifying glass he has been holding back into its case, stands, and cradles his face in his hands.

The man standing beside him reaches out and grabs his elbow. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Just a headache," Sherlock grumbles. He can actually feel the doctor´s disapproving glance, and sighs, exasperated. "Nothing to worry about, John."

John Watson ponders mentioning that his flatmate hasn´t been sleeping more than three or four hours over the past weeks. He could mention that torturing a Stradivarius to produce wailing, disharmonic tunes at three in the morning isn´t only the safest method to keep everyone in a close vicinity awake, but most probably falls under an EU regulation on the protection of cultural property. He could ask why Sherlock resumes his erratic pacing when at the flat, but appears rigid and hesitant on a crime scene. But here is not the place, nor the time, and all he does is greet the approaching Detective Inspector with a curt nod.

Lestrade nods and waves a hand towards his consulting detective. "Is he in any shape to give a statement?"

Greg and John exchange glances, and John nods. Sherlock is still clutching his head, his fingertips buried in his hair, massaging his temples with his thumbs. Any other day, he would not hesitate to fire his deductions at Greg, but John knows from previous experience that all he wants at present is to get back to their flat as soon as possible to recover from his migraine.

"So what have you got?" Lestrade isn´t fazed by Sherlock´s portrayal of eternal suffering. "The sooner you tell me, the earlier our good doctor here can take proper care of you."

"Indeed, Lestrade." Sherlock lets his hands drop and turns towards the other man, stifling a sigh. The scathing note is gone when he continues. "The man was no Londoner. He was here on a family visit. He was alone when he met his murderer. He wore several rings. They are all gone except for one. The one which is left is not really of value, but carries a distinguishable stone. Whoever killed him took his rings, but left this one out. Why? This ring was special to the victim´s relatives. The killer wanted to send them a message. A very risky method of communication. Unless the killer doesn´t care about risk. Unless he feels safe, protected. Probably by a larger organisation…" Sherlock´s voice falters, and he freezes, one hand in the air, the other one flying to his mouth.

"An organisation?" Lestrade fails to see the connection. "A hitman? Surely there are easier ways to get rid of one´s husband or male relative."

"It´s easier to avoid getting one´s hands dirty," Sherlock replies. "Far easier to hire someone who will take care of the problem discreetly."

"What are you implying?" Lestrade has crossed his arms, already exasperated with Sherlock talking in allusions.

The detective doesn´t answer. Moriarty. His thoughts are racing. How could he have missed it? The criminal mastermind is probably still playing him from a distance, murdering innocent Londoners simply to amuse himself with Sherlock´s deductions. Playing me as he did at the pool, Sherlock thinks, suddenly feeling sick. The air around him fills with moisture, reeking of chlorine, and he coughs.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade´s voice is commanding, but he shakes his head.

"I can´t see more, I´m afraid. Now, if you please, Inspector, I´ll take my leave. It has been a very tiring morning. Send me the pictures and the report, and I will look into the evidence later."

John and Lestrade watch Sherlock´s retreating back, his hunched shoulders, and Lestrade sighs.

"Something´s off," he says, and faces John.

John rubs his chin. "Mycroft has already ordered me to watch him," he replies. "If Sherlock continues winding himself up like that, I might be tempted to take up the secret British government´s offer of booking us a very exclusive holiday."

Greg laughs. "Sherlock taking a break from the Work – I´d really like to see that." Concern creeps into his voice as he continues. "It might do him good, though. I haven´t seen him like that for a long time."

The unspoken sentence "ever since you came along, John" lingers between them.

"He´s changed, I suppose," John says.

"In many ways," Greg acknowledges. "I´m just concerned, that´s all."

"You´re not implying…"

"I´m not, John. But Mycroft is right – we´d better watch out for him."


	2. Night Out

**Night out**

* * *

"I´m going to meet Greg at the 'Horse and Hound'. Fancy coming, too?"

Sherlock looks up from his microscope, hesitating to give John the opportunity to notice the dark circles under his eyes. If he weren´t so exhausted, he would find his friend´s attempt at coaxing him out of his cocoon of experiments and investigations amusing. They both know that he doesn´t thrive on discussing trivialities, and John rarely asks him to come along for a night out.

"No. Work to do," he replies, hoping for John to leave.

The doctor crosses his arms and frowns. A waft of his aftershave tickles Sherlock´s nostrils unpleasantly, intensifying his headache and making him nauseous.

"Are you sure? You haven´t been out in days."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock answers, dismissively. In fact, he has been out on several nights during the past weeks, but this is not John´s concern.

The doctor pushes himself off the doorframe, still frowning. Dr. Watson mode, Sherlock thinks, and wishes John would switch it off. He really needs to avoid John´s medical scrutiny.

"You look awful, actually. Sure you´re not coming down with something?"

"I´m fine, John. Just a bit under the weather." The fingers of his left hand choose exactly this moment to twitch and go limp, and the slide he has been fiddling with drops and shatters on the kitchen floor.

John heaves an eyebrow and takes a step forward. "I see. Better let me have a look at you."

"Don´t bother," Sherlock snarls, evading his friend´s advance by bolting towards the opposite corner of the room.

John lifts his hands in mock surrender. "All right. I won´t pester you with my medical proficiency. Just try and get some sleep, will you? You can take the painkillers from my nightstand, if you need them."

Sherlock pushes a hand into his curls. Painkillers. A simple solution to a simple problem. He snorts. "I will be fine, thank you," he says, quietly. John answers by grabbing his jacket and keys and walking to the door.

"Oh, and don´t forget to call Mycroft. He keeps asking me whether you´ll meet him for dinner on Sunday evening."

Sherlock, who has returned to examining his slides, just harrumphs. Thankfully, John accepts this as approval and leaves.

* * *

A few hours later, Sherlock ponders his worn face in the bathroom mirror, tracing his jawline with his fingertips. He had sworn, once, to never see this look in his eyes again, a mix of weariness and want, and he swears softly under his breath. He has made a mistake, out of sentiment.

John would probably tell him that he´s experiencing PTSD after the encounter at the pool, and to seek professional help.

He would need to explain. Need to elaborate on how the nightmares have been getting at him. Ever since Moriarty threatened to kill him and John, he has been dreaming. John was in his dreams, wearing Moriaty´s face, shot by snipers, his blood staining the water. Sherlock has woken panting, the knowledge that his flatmate, friend, partner has died, because he was foolish enough to show off on his criminal counterpart, weighing like a dark cloud on his mind. Moriarty´s threat to claim John´s life, Sherlock´s heart, echoes in his head when he wakes. Sleep is impossible after these dreams, and he holds vigil, shaken, unable to think clearly.

He´s tried to regain clarity by retreating to his mind palace, to assemble the bits and pieces he´s stored on Moriarty and his organisation, form a strategy. But he ended up back in the vast hallway, all the doors closed, with no strength left to open any of them.

His mind has become useless, and he knows only one last way to focus. It had taken him an astonishingly long time to give in considering that he is well acquainted with the "siren call of illicit substances", as Mycroft likes to phrase it. His willpower has finally crumbled under the overwhelming desire to black out the disturbing images, to return to clarity and calm. The most effective distraction he has ever known was only a few streets away, and in the end it was disturbingly easy to return to it.

The face in the mirror is that of a stranger, of the man he was four years ago, of someone who has ceased to care. Sherlock turns the tap, and splashes his face with cold water. The longing isn´t very pronounced, simply whispering to him that once more, only this once, wouldn´t make a difference, and isn´t it a good thing that he will be finally able to find sleep?

He hesitates, his hands clenching the rim of the basin. With one swift step, he finally turns and walks briskly to his room. His fingers tingle in anticipation as he opens the window and reaches into a nook in the wall. The leather-covered surface of the box caresses his palm, and he closes his eyes as he opens it. It is all too familiar and too foreign at the same time. He shouldn´t be doing this. But when has he ever listened to reason in this?

He feels split into two people: while one retrieves the contents from the small compartment, the other watches in disgust. His hands are shaking, whether from longing or fear, he can´t discern.

In the end, it is too late, as it has always been: the roaring beast of self-loathing and arrogance takes over, and he no longer cares, no longer dissects where this is heading.

The effect is immediate. The clarity and calm he has been missing is returning as soon as he sags back into the sofa´s cushions. He closes his eyes, a willing object in a dance of decipherable patterns, the world falling into logical patterns, enhanced by music, by dreams of flying and oysters…

The liquid doesn´t provide the same comfort as it did all these years ago. Sherlock wakes up, drawn and uneasy, unable to do anything except letting the last waves of his high pass while waiting for his brain to kick into gear again.

Coming back to his sense, he realises he fooled himself into believing the drug would give him power over Moriarty.

All he gained was to lose power over himself, though. All because of sentiment. All because of John.


	3. Quiet Room

**Quiet Room**

* * *

Mycroft walks into the Diogenes Club, the morning´s newspapers tucked tightly under his left arm, his umbrella dangling from his right. The peace of the Quiet Room consumes him, and he sighs with contentment. The Georgian house with its eccentric regulations is one of the two places in London where he is effectively cut off from his daily chores, a place where he can recover from the tedium of negotiations and official dinners.

His position doesn´t allow him to enjoy this quiet very often. Consequently, he usually visits the club in the early mornings, when the capital is still awakening. This morning has been perfect for a short trip to the Diogenes Club – he has had a most enlightening talk with a major MI5 agent, gathering information he will later use in a private talk with the Russian ambassador. Tea and toast in his private room appears to be a most alluring start to a stressful and most probably dissatisfying day.

Pondering his agenda for the next fourteen hours, he navigates the wide chairs, placed in an irregular pattern on the priceless Persian rug, when he catches sight of two slender, bare feet. He allows himself a faint smile as he steps around the chair and regards the familiar figure on the seat. It´s his brother, huddled into his ubiquitous coat, his dark curls falling into his eyes, hiding his elegant features.

Sherlock is fast asleep, breathing heavily, and Mycroft knows from experience that soon his snoring will interrupt the sacred peace of the club´s largest room. Mycroft tugs his umbrella under his left arm, carefully avoiding rustling the newspapers, and reaches out to carefully shake his brother´s shoulder. Sherlock´s eyes snap open instantly. He blinks, scowls, and rubs a hand over his face.

Mycroft withdraws his hand and cocks an eyebrow at the curious absence of Sherlock´s quick reflexes. Sherlock stares back, bleary-eyed, obviously too dazed to comprehend where he is.

"My," he slurs finally, and Mycroft cringes inwardly, recalling immediately when he had last witnessed his brother moving this clumsily.

"Morphine," he states, very quietly.

One of the butlers picks up on their short exchange, and sends Mycroft a questioning glance, while several of the guests stir, the first breezes of a rising storm. With a subtle wave of his hand, Mycroft signals the man to mind his own business. As a founding member of the Diogenes, he does hold several privileges, including offering his wayward brother refuge in one of the guest rooms.

Sherlock doesn´t seem inclined to ask for his help. Instead, he sends him an annoyed glare, carrying their life-long history of Sherlock trying to hide facts from Mycroft, and Mycroft deducing them in a wink. Mycroft simply cocks an eyebrow at the accusation in his brother´s eyes, and Sherlock nods as if being answered a question while he untangles his feet. He pushes his sweaty curls back with one hand while he fishes for his shoes with the other. When he finally gets up, Mycroft is presented with the absolutely unwelcome sight of his sibling´s pallid complexion and tired, dark-rimmed eyes.

"Come," he orders, offering a hand, and the fact that Sherlock doesn´t flinch but clings to it to steady himself is more telling than any words.

* * *

In the guest room – the one provided for Mycroft personally – they are served the desired tea and toast. They drink in silence, Mycroft on high alert but outwardly calm. He has taken the chair next to the door to prevent Sherlock from making a bolt, but his brother has stayed quiet and subdued so far.

The silence stretches, and Mycroft finds that his appetite is waning with every second. Sherlock is balancing the bone china cup at the tips of his long, elegant fingers, his arms on his knees, his eyes dark and absent.

Eventually, Mycroft clears his throat. "How long and why?" he demands, his voice dangerously void of feeling.

Sherlock looks up, the cup dangling precariously on his hand. He hasn´t been confronted with his brother´s interrogating voice for a long while. Small wonder Mycroft has a reputation for being able to retrieve any information he wants – his cold tone is certainly an addition to his deduction skills. Despite it, a spark of genuine concern lights up in Mycroft´s eyes, and Sherlock feels his resilience waning.

"A fortnight ago. No regular intervals. I needed to think."

Another long silence follows. Sherlock has used the same argument before, and he expects Mycroft to meet it with his usual disdain, but the secret British government simply heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"Do you remember what you told me the last time you were released from rehab?" Mycroft´s voice is surprisingly gentle, and Sherlock stares at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"You admitted you had been desperate to stop because you knew you were losing control. To be honest, it surprised me – my brother, the valiant pirate, confessing to being afraid." Mycroft smiles thinly. "I assume something has occurred recently to overwrite this fear."

Sherlock studies the lines in his brother´s face, painfully aware that he has contributed to placing several of them there. He takes another sip of his tea. Even cold, it helps to clear his fogged mind.

"Moriarty happened," he concedes.

Mycroft watches him with a frown, clearly waiting for him to elaborate, but he can´t. It has cost him all his courage to enter the Diogenes Club, to keep his resolve to tell Mycroft the truth. He feels drained and void of any more words. And he doesn´t want to reveal his weakness, as he did all those years ago.

The elder Holmes brother crosses his legs, and folds his hands, his posture losing its previous rigidness. Sherlock can´t quite decipher whether Mycroft is genuinely accommodating or just acting to get him to talk. A wave of dizziness hits him, a tentative reminder of what he is to expect if he doesn´t take another hit soon. As he can´t allow himself to drift even more than he already does, he tries to distract his thoughts by counting the quadrangles in the carpet´s pattern, and relating their colours to chemical substances.

Finally, he is able to form a proper sentence.

"I have long suspected there must be a power behind many criminal activities in the city. There have been too many similarities adding up to a pattern. Jeff Hope, the cabbie, told me he had a sponsor in Moriarty. As you well know, this is not the first time we´d heard of him."

Mycroft leans back, clasping his hands. "He has been watching you. And by threatening me, you, and John, he has finally stepped out of the shadows."

"Apparently." Sherlock sets his cup down on the small table between them, and leans back, his arms crossed.

Mycroft touches his lips with his fingertips. "The incident at the pool was staged. As was the affair with the Bruce-Partington-Plans. Moriarty wants to draw you into the headlights while he is staying in the dark. And he seems to assume that touching my territory and threatening me will achieve him something."

Sherlock nods. "He seemed to be strangely obsessed with me." He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "It wouldn´t be the first time someone attempts using me to get to you." He snorts. "I am a liability, as you never tire of reminding me."

Silence lingers between the brothers as they both remember the attempt on Sherlock´s life which had nearly cost Mycroft his career.

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. "I noticed. He´s toying with us."

"He regards all his schemes as part of a great game," Sherlock clarifies. "They are intended as a message for both of us, but he merely uses me as a pawn."

"He must know that I wouldn´t place family obligations over matters of the state."

"Spoken as a true diplomat," Sherlock replies. "But even you are not immune to sentiment, I´m afraid. Moriarty is exploiting your weaknesses by exploiting mine."

Mycroft leans forward, his hands still folded. "This is about John," he states, quietly.

Sherlock looks at his brother, not willing to admit that Mycroft is right. They both know how important John has become to Sherlock in a very short time. Although Mycroft respects the army doctor, he regularly scoffs at Sherlock´s recent inclination towards friendship and sentiment. Sherlock can´t allow Mycroft to see how deeply he cares for his partner and friend. He can´t allow John to be threatened by the consulting criminal, either. The game needs to remain between Moriarty and the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft clears his throat. "You want to protect John," he states. Sherlock nods imperceptibly, and Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Then I must ask you to abide by my rules from now on," he announces in his most solemn voice. "Until we´ve successfully removed the threat Moriarty and his acquaintances pose."

"How long is this going to take?" The thought of being under his brother´s thumb for an unforeseen timespan makes Sherlock uneasy, and his voice rough with disdain.

Mycroft spreads his arms. "I don´t know. I am sorry that I need to resort to this, but I need you on my side."

"You are not sorry at all. You just want to supervise me," Sherlock snarls. "If, and I mean if, I complied, I´d be under your radar for years. I don´t think I can tolerate another decade of brotherly concern." He spits out the last word.

Mycroft rises. "Think about it," he replies. "We can talk about details tomorrow. For today, I assume you´d like to relax and make yourself presentable before you return to Baker Street. I´d also like to remind you of our agreement."

Sherlock slumps forward, resting his head between his forearms. "I don´t think I can go back," he murmurs. "Not even for two weeks."

Mycroft shifts. "Initially. Depending on the doctor´s opinion of your progress."

Sherlock looks up, breathing in deeply. The dizziness he felt earlier is returning, fuelling his annoyance. "Do you really assume reprimanding me is more important than formulating a plan to fight a criminal mastermind, brother?" he spits, scathingly.

Mycroft sends him his most imperious stare. "I am still controlling your funds, brother mine."

"Of which I don´t need a penny," Sherlock grumbles, his anger flaring.

"Of course you don´t, leading this bohemian lifestyle of yours," Mycroft replies evenly. "You still think I expect you to come crawling, begging for money and a cure, as you did all those years ago. Well, now would be the appropriate time to crawl into bed and sleep the effects of the morphine off."

Sherlock stands, swaying a little. He is too tired to take his brother´s bait, but too angry to keep his tongue. "I can assure you, I will never _crawl_, Mycroft," he hisses. "And thank you for the bed – I´d appreciate if you kept the door unlocked this time."

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock wakes from a fitful sleep. In his dream, he had seen John tackling Moriarty, bleeding from a small hole in his forehead. Sherlock had cried out in despair, aiming his gun at Moriarty, but the criminal´s laughter had paralysed him, and he had watched in horror as John crumpled to the ground in slow motion.

His heart is still pounding as he sits up to switch on the bedside lamp. John would never have been in danger if he hadn´t invited him to assist with the work in the first place. He should have known better than to assume Moriarty´s invitation to come out and play wasn´t connected to a price. But John will never be a price he is willing to pay, that much he knows already.


End file.
